


Why me?

by gregariousGrandeur



Series: Could You Imagine? [The Arcana] [3]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Other, Reader-Insert, Some depictions of the lazaret because that shit haunts me, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 04:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18542521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gregariousGrandeur/pseuds/gregariousGrandeur
Summary: Prompts for tungle dot hell! this time it's Number 66. "Why Me"





	Why me?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay i will repeat once again, lazaret nightmare gets a teeeensy bit graphic but like not super duper bad I don't think. Basically just describing what happened in a nightmare that sorta thing
> 
> Reader Beweader you're in for a sceader (not really)

**“Why me?”**

It’s the question of the century, you suppose. 

The thought clings to your skin like oil and grease from a heavy meal, lingering on your subconscious no matter how hard you scrub it away. It remains, everlasting and permanent, seeping into the cracks of your mind like tar into cracks in stone. You hate it, more than anything you’ve ever encountered before, and you desperately wish it would cease.

And yet the thought remains, spiraling about your thoughts and permeating every tender moment you share with the love of your life, like a curse that you cannot speak of. 

Asra hasn’t seemed to have caught onto your feelings yet, which you can only be thankful for. You wouldn’t want to burden him with this, especially knowing the look he would give you, so pitiful, so heartbroken. Or perhaps he’d just stare, hard faced and unreadable. Like a porcelain doll stuck in place. 

He was wont to do as he pleased, and oft became unreadable. 

There were times that you could read Asra as though he were a child’s first book, with large bright pictures and a handful of simple words beneath the illustration. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and you could predict his actions as easily as one could count the fingers of a chicken. Which was to say, that there were no fingers on a chicken. (Though... well, you supposed that wasn’t true technically speaking, but it didn’t exactly serve your purpose, and thinking more into it would surely only derail your line of thought further.) 

However, there were other times, times such as when he left for days on end, that you could read him about as well as you could read in ancient glyphs of a long dead civilization. Aged and worn by time, hardly able to be seen against the smooth stone. His face would take on those attributes, cold, and impassive. Unreadable and distant as he looked at you with an unidentifiable emotion. Sometimes, you thought you could understand what was there, you were almost sure you could see a spark of something, and then he would turn and walk away with a flick of his scarf, giving a faux-affectionate goodbye before leaving your life once more.

You hoped for the former, and feared the latter.

When he had first admitted to you the truth of your death, amidst the ashes and rubble of the lazaret, he had been so open.

So vulnerable. 

He’d told you then why he’d done it, and you’d been convinced, the nature of his words and the tears streaming down his cheeks had been proof of what he claimed. That he had truly loved you, and had brought you back.

You wished that you could believe it now, clutching tight to the empty space in bed where he once was. Cold and abandoned, just like you.

Tears streamed down your face as your nightmare resurfaced, the screams of those damned alongside you. The feeling of a child in your arms, lost and alone as the room grew hotter, your face slick with sweat and tears and blood as a panic settled in. Your breathing grew ragged, and a sick feeling rose in your stomach as you felt the trembling of your arms increase. Words stuck in your throat as the room burst with flame.

There was no spell that could tame this fire. 

Your own magic was useless here, wild and untamed, you couldn’t summon the prescience of mind to even attempt a water spell. 

Perhaps that was what they’d wanted, when they’d locked you in here.

For you to panic, unable to control yourself as the smell of burning flesh and hair rose higher, heat increasing and-

Your stomach gave a heave, and you jerked out of bed, falling to the floor with a gasp. Another heave sent you stumbling into the bathroom, almost unable to make it in time before the remains of your dinner made an untimely entrance to the already terrible party that was your night. Just when things couldn’t have gotten worse, you supposed life had to one-up itself. 

Once your stomach ceased throwing a shit fit, you breathed deeply and shakily climbed to your feet, hastily reaching for a cup of water and washing your mouth out. 

“Why me?” Your mind muttered once more, wishing in that moment that you were anybody else. 

“Love?”

Your head snapped to the doorway where Asra lingered, eyes wide as he took in your shaking form, your eyes red and cheeks stained with tears. You stood, like a deer faced with the end of an arrow, and shook. 

Why me? Your mind spat again. 

Why had it been you that he’d chosen to save? You could hardly imagine it was for this purpose. For Asra to return home after a day out of town to you looking like  _this -_ shivering and tear stained, rumpled and slick with sweat from your nightmare. 

Surely, he hadn’t saved you, and given you his heart, for you to have nightmares that made you heave up your meal. 

For you to stand there, numbly, and brokenly wish that he hadn’t saved you, even if for only a fraction of a second. 

But then the thought is gone and his arms are around you, tight and comforting as your legs give out with a great shake. Your face presses tight against his neck, sobbing into his collarbone uncontrollably. A distant part of your brain tells you to get ahold of yourself, while the other savors the moment, no matter the circumstances, as he slowly lowers the two of you to the ground, gently shushing you while rubbing your back.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your forehead, tenderly, gently. “I’ve got you.”

His actions are tender, intimate, and bring you unfathomable comfort in that moment. You know he does, and that the words aren’t simply empty promises to calm and soothe you, you know he means them with the sort of dedication he has to his craft. Perhaps more, you think, as your sobs turn to hiccups, and he gently kisses the tears away. His hand cups your cheek, thumb rubbing against your skin as he calms you. 

 _Why me?_  Your brain asks. 

 _Because he loves me_ , your heart replies.


End file.
